
A Little Book of Verse 

BY 
FLORENCE DAVIS 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A LITTLE BOOK 

OF 

VERSE 

BY 
FLORENCE DAVIS 



NEW YORK 
MCMVIII. 






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S£P^ 23. l*Oa 

COPY B, 



Copyright, 1908. 
Br Florence Davis 



A LITTLE BOOK OF VERSE 



DEDICATION. 
To the memory of my 
mother, who has gone beyond, 
to my aged father, and to our 
beautiful Southland, this little 
book is lovingly dedicated. 



CONTENTS 






Page 


Moods of My Mind 


9 


The House of My Dreams 


10 


The Heart That Would Know My Own 


- 13 


To Leonie - 


14 


If I Were a Critic - - - - 


- 15 


The Ladder of Fame 


16 


Stir Not Those Leaves - 


- 20 


A Rose - 


21 


The Girl With The Spear - 


- 22 


Lines To a Child - 


26 


Cupid ------ 


- 30 


His Wedding Morn 


31 



The moods of my mind 

Both playful and wild 
Oft seem in their changes 

Astray as a child. 
But whatever the mood, 

Or whenever the time, 
Each comes as it wills, 

And it comes in rhyme. 



THE HOUSE OF MY DREAMS. 

Tis a quaint old house 

I've seen in my dreams, 
With its moulded rafters 

And cobwebbed beams; 
With its huge, dark chimney 

Where gray bats hide, 
And its vine-cover'd lattice 

And portal wide. 

A strange, sweet scent 

Bears a flower, that grows 
Far under the vines 

Where nobody knows. 
The chirp of a cricket 

Comes trembling near, 
And the south wind's sigh 

Breaks softly here. 
The dew falls dripping 

On each tiny leaf, 
And the kiss of the moonbeam 

Is strangely brief. 



10 



There are rustlings and stirrings 

Of creeping things ; 
The pipe of a bird 

Too young for its wings. 
A twittering evensong 

Sends it to rest 
From the mother that hovers it 
Close in its nest. 

It has an air of decay 

And of sadness, too; 
And I think of the days 

When the house was new. 
Of the pattering feet 

That trod those ways, 
Of the laughter that rang 

In the other days. 

Yet I love the house 

As it stands to-day, 
With its leaning walls 

Of strength in decay. 
And my fancy peoples 

It every night 
With sprites that dance 

In the moon's soft light. 



11 



There's a charm about it, 

A magic spell, 
From its old board walks 

To its moss-grown well. 
Nor would I ever, 

Were millions mine, 
Have the old house changed 

In structure or vine. 
For I close my eyes 

When the gaslight gleams 
And visit in fancy 

The house of my dreams. 



12 



THE HEART THAT WOULD KNOW MY OWN. 

He looks at her golden hair 

While he dreams of eyes of brown. 
I think of his frank, open smile, 

And bow 'neath your critical frown. 
He thinks of a slim, dark woman 

To whom love is all in all, 
Though the bills he generously pays 

Are for the blonde, stately and tall. 
I listen to all your chidings, 

And explain it as best I can ; 
But you never can understand, my dear, 

You are such a serious man. 
We just are not made for each other, 

While they were not born to mate. 
I may ne'er in the wide world meet him, 

If I do it will be too late. 
Thus my heart must forever be sighing 

For the love I have never known, 
And I still must keep a-dreaming 

Of the heart that would know mv own. 



13 



TO LEONIE. 

I give thee all my love, dear, 
And all wealth, were it mine. 

I'd give thee the whole wide world, 
Could I lay it at thy shrine. 

I'd give thee all the joy, dear, 
With ne'er a single sigh; 

I'd give thee golden moments 
That time might pass thee by. 

I'd give thee fame and wisdom, 
With friends true at thy side. 

Thy life should be a living song 
And love with thee abide. 

I'd give thee more — the hereafter, 

That God intends for mine, 
"Gladly I'd give it thee, dear, 
Were it better than thine. 



14 



IF I WERE A CRITIC. 

I might not think her "wonderful," 
Nor deem her acting "strong;" 

But I'd say she helped a little 
To carry the play along. 

I'd think of the earnest effort, 

Of the storm-tossed days of toil — 

Of her tears, and bitter heartache — 
And I'd pour on a little oil. 

I would not see the hollow cheeks, 

Nor hear the voice almost gone. 
My heart would go out to the woman 
Whom Fate had left alone. 

I might not think her "wonderful," 
Nor deem her acting "strong;" 

But I'd say she helped a little 
To carry the play along. 



15 



THE LADDER OF FAME. 

I set out to climb the Ladder of Fame 

For the land of the Wonderful Isles, 
With youth in my heart and sun in my hair, 

And my glad face a rose of smiles. 

I set out at dawn; but stopped to rest, 
For bright and fair was the day to me ; 

I lingered apace with endearing friends, 
Till a shower came dancing o'er the lea. 

"A shower!" they cried, "at the ladder of fame? 

The rungs will be wet. Come, leave it and sing. 
So we sang and danced in forgetful play 

Till the June's dusk brought the firefly's wing. 

Once more at dawn I set out again ; 

But the eager throng and the crowding files, 
Jostling and pushing, utterly marred 

My joy, my dream of the Wonderful Isles. 



16 



So I sat me down on a bank of moss 

To watch the passing of th' eager throng; 

And as I sat and dreamily watched 
A little year came running along. 

Never before had I seen a year, 
And this one was bonny and mild, 

With filmy garb, and innocent eyes, 
And the ringing voice of a happy child. 

A young little year! She linger'd and smiled 
And threw me a kiss on my hair. 

It deepened the gold and flattened the dent 
Of a dimple I'd thought so fair. 

And as thus I sat other years went by; 

All lingered with me a space. 
The first that pass'd stayed longer, 

But the latter hurried more swift in the race. 

The first years were happy, joyous and young, 
The others were stern and strong; 

But each, as it passed, touched my hair and face, 
And smiled at my careless song. 



Amidst the year's throng a little child 

I saw running here and there ; 
A butterfly nymph it seemed on the wing, 

"Opportunity" named so fair. 

It beckoned, with meaningful waves of its hands 

To those who passed on the way, 
Till its eye caught mine, when it said, with delight, 

"Come, climb the ladder of fame to-day." 

It ran and it leaped to the second bar, 
"The rungs to-day are dry and high." 

Then held forth its arms, "Come, hurry !" it cried. 
"Follow me, and we'll climb to the sky." 

But the moss where I sat was thick and soft. 

I answered a nod and smiled, 
And cried, "Not yet, not yet; some other day 

I'll surely follow, my child." 

At that very moment it fell from the rung, 

And they gently bore it away. 
But my heart grew faint at the ashen face 

Of the child that died that dav. 



18 



Lone I sat on the mossy bank, 

Though the air was cold and damp, 

Till the rays of the sun began to wane. 

And the spark in my heart a flickering lamp. 

Years came thick and years came fast, 

But none e'en glanced my way. , 

They tossed some snow on my thinning nair 
And turned the gold to gray. 

Then I fell on my knees and began to pray 
"Oh God' give back the child !' -and then- 

But the darkness fell and my eyes grew dim. 
"God pity my grief! Amen! 



19 



STIR NOT THOSE LEAVES. 

Stir not those leaves of roses 
Lest you free a world of sighs. 

That flowered space encloses 

The grave where a dead love lies. 



20 



A ROSE. 

It is made of a zephyr, a sunbeam, 
A breath that comes from God. 

These mixed and mingled with life's germ 
Hidden far under the sod. 



21 



THE GIRL WITH THE SPEAR. 

My verses are bad — 

I know they are — 
But what else expect 

From a comedy star? 

The world scarce credits 
Our heart or brain. 

We know no sorrow, 
Nor feel any pain. 

Our days are danced 

To live to a tune. 
And wear the smiles 

Of perennial June. 

'Tis our business to sing 
Tho' the heart be sad. 

Be we sinners or saints 
We are thought as bad. 



22 



A friend we may have 
Is our "angel," they say. 

The one whom we favor, 
Our bills to pay. 

Be we "chorus" or "star 
Our lot is the same, 

For ever before us 

Is the end of the game. 

See that frail, poor "chorus" 
With the slender legs, 

Which she uses as stiffly 
As thin wooden pegs. 

And the one that's next her- 
She with ink-well eyes, 

And rainbow tresses 
From numerous dyes. 



23 



And the poor little girl 
That carries the spear! 

Ah! for that little girl 
I drop a tear. 

Her figure is rounded, 
Her face quite young. 

She stands on the ladder — 
Its very first rung. 

Along the White Way 
As she glances up 

Are throngs of men, 
Each holding a cup. 

And the sparkle of gems 
Quite dazzle her eyes; 

Yet the rays of those gems 
Are effulgent with sighs. 



24 



I sigh as she trembles 
And starts to ascend. 

Where will her goal be? 
What will be her end? 

The sigh breaks from me, 
And my eye drops the tear. 

God protect the girl 
Who carries the spear! 



25 



LINES TO A CHILD. 

I'll tell you, dear, 
Of my castle in air. 

Tis built on the mount 
Of I don't-know-where. 

But the furnishings in it 
Are wondrous fair. 

The delicate art 

Of its cobweb screens 
Far, far outrival 

Your wildest dreams. 

The hermit who dwells 

In this fairy house 
Is a tiny, noiseless, 

Gray-furred mouse. 

And he loves to stand 

In the moonbeams' drapes, 
Or perch himself high 

On a bunch of grapes 



26 



That hangs so near 
To the window's ledge 

That his tail still lies 
On its mossy edge, 

As he gazes down 

The dark stream below, 
The stream that was formed 

Of a sigh, you know. 

And a sunset rare 
Of which poets sing, 

Was wov'n for our sky 
From a butterfly's wing, 

Which flew by one day 
As I sat on the beach, 

Sailing and circling 
Just out of my reach. 

But the color it left 

As it passed by 
Was just what I needed 

To finish our sky. 



27 



The beautiful glint 

Of sunlight fair 
Came back from a curl 

Of our baby's hair. 

That little gray cloud 

Circling about 
Is the chance result 

Of our baby's pout. 

Now, here are the keys, 
Take and wander through 

This castle I've built 
For me and for you. 

Yet, ere entering, dear, 
Pause a brief while 

To look over the grounds 
From the quaint old stile. 



That queer stile was made 
Of a grasshopper's knee 

I sent to far Kansas 
To find him, you see. 

The walls of this castle 
Are built of my thought; 

Perhaps not so rare, 

Yet they cannot be bought 

By another on earth. 

All all are my own, 
And all are bequeathed 

To you, dear, alone. 



29 



CUPID. 

A tear, a sigh, and a rose-leaf 
On a table together, one night, 

Formed themselves into a Cupid, 
Who sped with his arrows of light. 

A whiff of tobacco, a snow-flake, 
And the rapturous sound of a kiss, 

Followed the visit of Cupid 
Into the Land of Bliss. 



30 



HIS WEDDING MORN. 

Have you ever heard the birds sing 

As though their hearts were torn? 
Have you ever seen fresh roses 

Of all their beauty shorn? 
Have you ever heard sweet music 

Turn to discords harsh and wild? 
Or seen the deepest tragedy 

In the bright face of a child? 
Have you ever, while your lips smiled, 

Felt in your heart a thorn? 
I have — 'twas yesterday — 

It was his wedding morn. 



31 



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